


The chair

by Hopetohell



Category: Mission: Impossible (Movies)
Genre: Fingering, Light Bondage, Other, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Reader-Insert, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-06
Updated: 2020-07-06
Packaged: 2021-03-04 20:08:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 481
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25112116
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hopetohell/pseuds/Hopetohell
Summary: A little bit of bondage does a body good.
Relationships: August Walker/Reader
Comments: 1
Kudos: 7





	The chair

“This was a lot easier when you weren’t dead.”

He looks up sharply from where he’s kneeling, binding your ankles to the chair. Looks down at his hands, which are most certainly not translucent and ghostly. 

“I mean,” you try again, “the hiding and the sneaking around and these weird safehouses that always smell like baked beans. And I just, I want you so _badly_ and so often that all this waiting, it just hurts.”

He strokes a hand down the bare curve of your ass, fingers dipping into the cleft before he draws his hand back and strikes your ass, _hard_. You can’t help but jerk forward at that, knees squeaking in the seat. “Fuck, August. _Jesus_ , do that again.”

“You talk too much,” he says, and you can hear the amusement coloring his words. “Let’s fix that.” He balls up his tie and stuffs it into your mouth. 

You sputter around the tie, saliva soaking the fabric. Walker finishes with your ankles and moves on to your wrists, drawing your arms down over the back of the chair. It’s an awkward position, one that means you have to continually tense against the restraints or else the back of the chair presses uncomfortably into your chest. As he stands, he casually flicks a nipple with his fingernail, smirking at your muffled shriek. 

Then he gets to work. 

He starts by curling a hand gently around your throat. Not squeezing, just holding. His hand is a warm weight that reminds you unequivocally that you’re his. And while he holds you there, collaring you with one hand, the other is stroking down your back, fingertips weaving in and out between the knobs of your spine. He takes a moment to pet at your iliac crest, chuckling a bit when his  
fingertips brush your abdomen and the muscles jump under his hand. He’s teasing, playing, taking time he doesn’t have to relish the way you respond to his touch. When he reaches to stroke your center, he finds you so ready to take his fingers. 

At his first touch you’re keening, the sound high in your throat where the makeshift gag can’t hide it. The hand at your throat tightens momentarily at that and you feel his other hand pull away. You nod your understanding and mercifully, his fingers return to your aching core. 

He works you gently, thoroughly, fingers seeking out the spot inside you that makes your vision white out. When he finds it, he is relentless, rubbing and stroking. “You’re doing so very well for me. So quiet. So _obedient_. I think you’ve earned a reward. You may cum.” At that he tightens one hand and twists the other, ripping your orgasm from you. You’re panting, tonelessly crying around his tie. And when you’ve regained your senses, you look up to see him perfectly composed again, totally under control. _Asshole_.


End file.
